i'll be your shadow in the dark

[byblow]

WHO: Alistair, Dorian Pavus, Rafael Viteri, Scipio the Marvel, some horses, some darkspawn.
WHAT: Chekhov's vials of darkspawn blood.
WHEN: Early Firstfall.
WHERE: Mountain paths and what's left of Haven.

N—

Bunch of mining tunnels under ruins. Darkspawn peeking their heads through. Got Wardens up there don't you?

—J

Comments

I'm tagging this and no one can stop me

[bunko]

Scipio deflates only slightly, which puts him at a more normal and manageable level, so the actual difference might be difficult to detect. Rafael can probably guess, but Rafael can also guess when he has a terrible hand during cards and is only bluffing, so perhaps Rafael is nothing to measure by.

(Not so. Rafael is everything to measure by.)

"Upwards of two," he says aloud, as he lets the porridge slide back toward the other side of his tankard. It is a slow but choppy day, in the porridge sea. "Ah, but our numbers are also upwards of two."

A whole three. He sounds positive enough to be nearly convincing, even to those who can count.

"Besides, Rafa and I have gone up against more, as only two." Conveniently, he does not mention that this 'more' included no darkspawn among their ranks. A very small detail. "In a smuggler's cave just south of Rialto Bay we were, backed into a corner. Shoeless, covered in the guts of a pink dolphin, no hope of escape. And yet, we still slipped out, with only one sword each, and were back in Antiva City before the very next sundown."

Be impressed.

i'm tagging this and you could've probably stopped me if you wanted but now you're too late

[offortune]

At the moment one should probably be measuring by the breadth of Rafael's chest, which puffs out slightly to compensate for his partner's deflation, as if there is a limited quantity of arrogance that must be shared between them (this is not actually the case; they are perfectly capable of both being insufferable at the same time).

"Perhaps they just wished to see the famed Grey Wardens in action before employing the rocks," he suggests, in between letting swigs of porridge slop into his mouth. He has made no secret of his distaste, both for the meal and their means of eating it, but he is generally less precious about his food than Scipio can be. Gloppy sludge for breakfast is a somewhat nostalgic experience. He gulps it down as fast as is possible, head tipped back until the mug is nearly vertical, waiting for it to make its slow gelatinous slide into his gullet as Scipio tells the tale. He swallows to join in.

"One sword each and a dagger." Very important distinction. He pats his boot. "But I have one today, so we will survive. I hope our clothes will fare better, that pink dolphin stained my second-best tunic so badly even Mariella on the Via Fresca could not get it clean again. Pink spots, all over." He gestures at his front, loose fingers and a flick of his wrist away at the end in remembered disgust.

He looks into the mug, shaking it to try to draw the last bits of porridge together into a single lump worth eating. "So. How far do we go to meet them and what is our plan? You charge ahead with your shield and we attack from their flanks?"

ok but why would we want to stop you

[bunko]

"Oh, I like that," Scipio agrees, picking up the thread of suggestions right where Rafael had left off, so swift they nearly share the breath. Alistair has had time to grow used to the patter of Skip and Rafa's banter, but probably not used to it enough that he is able to unseat or interrupt that patter.

"We are good at the flanks. At attacking from flanks," he clarifies, as he does a gesture with his hands, one chop that draws invisible brackets in the air. Flanks. Two. Crunch. Maybe good at flanks in some other sense too, but right now, we are all discussing attacking. "And we do not have shields or armor. We would do better if we were to be snucking up. It is a style that suits us, yes?"

Snucking. He says it with such confidence that it might actually sound a little right, and he charges on to agree with himself:

"Yes, I think we should go with Rafa's plan. It is a very good plan. Less risk of staining, too." Not that their clothes are so fine any longer, but it is the principle. A man must care for what finery he has, even if it is a poor sort of finery. To let it grow poorer would be careless.

please never stop

[byblow]

Alistair has his mouth full of porridge for most of the time they're talking, unaware of the science of enzymes but aware that the longer he holds it in his mouth the sweeter and less bland-mush-tasting it becomes. But he would not try to interrupt even if he didn't have his mouth full. He's decided to try a tactic where he lets them exhaust themselves--not utterly, not physically, but on the topic at hand--before he bothers getting a word in.

Anyway, they're funny. He looks very obviously like a person who is trying not to smile.

"That is more or less the plan," he says, "but you have to wear at least a little armor, and shoes, and we'll have the mage. At a distance. He's not immune." Neither are they, technically, with the Calling as obnoxious proof. But they're more immune than the Tevinter. "If they have a mage, you need to stay back until we've handled it. Otherwise you can--" He wiggles one hand and his mostly-empty mug in an approximation of what he imagines people who fight with smaller and less clunky armor must feel like. "--flank away."